February 2nd, 2048

John was setting the dinner table on the patio. He was smoothing barely visible folds off a white Malgache tablecloth, humming a tune Sarah had never heard before.

Sensing her presence behind the glass, Sarah’s husband looked up and smiled crookedly, a faint translucence to his milky skin as the warm rays of a setting Kenyan sun pooled around his frame. Sarah smiled back.

He was quite beautiful, she thought. African Listings, in association with True Match South Africa. The TV boomed from the living room. African Listings was John and Sarah’s favourite show, and a weekly date for the couple. “Babe! Sarah called out excitedly. a smile spreading over abundant lips. “The show’s about to start!

February 7th, 2049

“They might bring this trash over here next.” Sarah said, not without aggression. Looking up from his phone, John considered the screen. Sarah had poured him 5 generous glasses of wine that evening to appease the angst of a stressful day at the embassy and his eyes swam with caged impatience.

“What now?” He asked. “True Match. You know. The robots. Sarah said.

“They just said ‘in Association withTrue Match South Africa.”

“Oh.” John replied lazily, his gaze dropping back to his


“Yes, that! Sarah exclaimed, her outrage mounting. “Don’t you find it disgusting?”

John, all too aware of the consequences of a poorly-thought out answer abstained from voicing his immediate thoughts. Instead, he watched her brush long dreadlocks coquettishly off a dewy caramel-skinned shoulder with slender, delicate fingers. John savoured the motion, mesmerised by the grace in her movements. Suddenly rather sad, he shrugged.

February 4th, 2050

“They don’t even look real.” Sarah declared, halfway through the African Listings show. “These robots they sell. They don’t even look like actual peopleā€¦

Then why are you so damn insecure?! John snapped slamming his glass of whisky on the glass table. For an instant, Sarah thought it might shatter, and she imagined herself reaching into the pilshf broken glass and clenching at a fragment until she bled.

She could not remember the last time she had cut

herself..aways moaning about these fucking robots. Do you think I’m gonna like, replace you for one or something? He was shouting, now. “You said it yourself. They don’t even fucking look real!

February 26th, 2051

John was setting setting the dinner table on the patio. He was humming a tune Leila had never heard before.

“Honey?” She started fruitilly, tousling her short blonde curls. “The show’s about to start.”

John kissed her and said nothing. Instead, he placed the cutlery neatly on the white Malgache cloth.

“In Association with, True Match, South Africa!” resounded from the TV. Suddenly, Leila was frowning. Her lips were pursed disapprovingly, evidently restraining words of distaste.

Satisfied, John smiled to himself. He had requested that his 7th order from True Match USA be designed with more internal conflict-solving methods.

Leila was watching the robotic figures tier around the screen suggestively, calling for orders, and yet she said nothing. Instead, her expression gradually grew serene.

“More wine?”
She suddenly asked her owner.

“I would love some.”
John acquiesced, lovingly.


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